Spider-Man 3: Unearthed
by UberDoc
Summary: Spider-Man 3: Unearthed is the retold story of what Spider-Man 3 should have been: less crowded and with more character development. Set in an alternate timeline, this version of Spider-Man 3 incorporates some of the movie's elements that actually worked with the film, but mostly contains original fiction from myself. Enjoy the developing story!
1. Prologue: Retribution

**Spider-Man 3: Unearthed**

By UberDoc (Author) and DavrosFan (Story Analyst)

 **This story is rated "M" (16+) for blood and gore, intense violence, strong language (in some scenes), mild sexual suggestions, and drug/alcohol use. Intended for mature audiences only.** **  
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 _DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Spider-Man© cinematic movie series that was originally owned by Sony Pictures Entertainment©; nor do I own the rights to the cover image of this story. All of the content in this story is for recreational use, not for self profit._

* * *

 **Prologue: Retribution**

For a moment's notice, darkness filled the void of the universe. Desolated cosmic wonders laid beyond the horizon of the distant cosmos, but soon became engulfed through daybreak. The rise of light gave rejuvenation to the never-sleeping city, and motivated millions to ascend from their slumber.

By the third hour past sunrise, many found themselves in their occupations, universities, and other responsibilities. However, for some, the business of freelancing required a different type of schedule. The eight hour shifts were non-existent in their world; their calls waited on the line at any time.

In the rundown apartment complexes of Uptown Manhattan, a particular man waited for his call. He didn't expect one for quite some time, given his rookie title in his newly acquired occupation. In dealing with this predicament, he continued his morning routine.

The weights slammed onto the concrete floor after each rep was completed. Deadlifting over five-hundred pounds of rusted iron, his shouts echoed throughout his apartment. Though, most of the noise was canceled from the riffs of a guitar blasting at maximum volume; the free-weights on the floor practically shook from the soundwaves. After his set was completed, he moved towards the padded bag hanging from the ceiling, and hit it with his thunder-like left and right hooks. He followed up with jabs and crosses, and concluded the combination with a muay-thai roundhouse kick. He repeated this combo several times over, increasing his speed, while retaining the same force every time. At this point, his knuckles were reddened, and sweat poured off his body. Though, he was far from complete.

He de-racked the four-hundred pound set of barred weights from the adjacent station, and pressed it away from his chest several times over, until failure. His heart was racing out of his chest at this point, so he grabbed a gallon jug of water from his nearby freezer, and poured it over his head and torso to cool himself off, then drank the remainder of it. He took a seat on the bench, and gazed off into the blank wall in front of him. The man was so zoned-out, in fact, that he almost didn't notice his illuminated cell-phone sounding off. Snapping out of his trance, the man stepped up to the phone after turning off his music, and wiped his hands on a towel.

The contact read off by a much-awaited corporate name, to his surprise. He curiously answered, attempting to control his anticipation.

"Hello?" he said.

"Hey, It's Betty; I'm glad I could get a hold of you." the woman told him. "Have you been watching the news?" she asked.

"Not this morning, no. Why?" the man curiously asked.

"It's about Oscorp. Osborn just released that he's going to hold a press conference at his charity banquet tonight. His PR rep said that he's going to address 'several controversies' at the event, which makes us think he's going to at least talk about you-know-what." she responded.

There was silence for a moment. "Okay, that's great and all, but where do I fit into any of this? Seems pretty out of my league." he followed up, not expecting much out of the information.

"Well you're wrong; our main guy called out. We need somebody to get some shots of Osborn at the banquet, and you're next on our list." Betty told him.

The man's eyes opened wide, astounded by her response. "What?!" he accidentally shouted. "You're serious?"

"Yes, as long as you have a nice tuxedo in your closet." she chuckled.

"Yeah I do, believe it or not. When is it?"

"At seven PM. Can you make it?" Betty asked.

"You bet, sweetheart; just give me the address, and I'm in." he told her, grabbing a pen and piece of paper.

"Great! You know, you really saved us on this one. I know the boss will appreciate it."

The fellow chuckled, saying, "Don't get your hopes up on that one."

Betty laughed, and agreed. "It's at 57th Street and Lexington Avenue. There should be an underground parking lot around there that's for the press; be sure to take that one if you plan on taking your bike."

"Thanks. I'll be sure to get some good shots tonight; I can promise you that." he assured her.

"I appreciate it; thanks a lot. Just remember to bring your press pass!"

"No problem. I'll go ahead and put it on the table so I don't forget it." He replied, doing just that.

"Great. I'll see you tomorrow!" she said.

"Alright, see ya' then." he concluded, closing his flip phone.

Suddenly, his relaxed composure blew, and he shouted out in jubilance. This was the call that he was waiting for; not just to take pictures of some ordinary petty theft crime scene, or snap some rather bland shots of a local opera presentation. Harry Osborn himself was about to break the headlines that night, and the ambitious man finally had a lone-wolf opportunity to get his shots below that bold print. He couldn't gather to accept that euphoric reality.

After somewhat calming down, he knew was his next priority was. He opened back up his phone, and opened his contact list. After clicking on the first favorite contact in the memory bank, he held the phone up to his ear.

He was met with a protracted ring, and eventually received a voicemail prompt, not surprised. He tried a few more times, before doing the same thing over again, expecting a different result.

 _Typical—she never answers when she's in class. Of course she's gonna make me wait._ He chuckled.

* * *

Shortly after the shower head was turned off, he shaved off his five o' clock shadow, and put on his dark denim jeans, and white tee-shirt. He then slipped into his sneakers, and put on a pair of aviators before leaving the apartment.

Despite the ominous nature of his neighborhood, it was nonetheless a considerably nice day in his borough. The bright spring sun shined upon every street corner, and there was a cool breeze that would raise the endorphins of even the most pessimistic of individuals.

The photojournalist racked the kickstand on his tried and true 59' Indian Chief. While it may not have been in the greatest condition, it always made a hell of a roar on ignition. It never failed to crack a smile on his face. He took off for Empire State Univeristy, and made sure the whole block knew he was doing so.

The capitol university of Manhattan was quite a beautiful institution. The flowers were blooming, and the lush trees were in their prime—following the aftermath of New York's brutal winter front. It was only a month before the summer commenced, and the transition seemed to reach near perfection.

After parking in the lot of the Building of Physical Sciences, the man walked past several young freshman and sophomore undergraduates leaving the campus early. Those were the students registered in quantum mechanics and astrophysics—not relating to the field of study of the man's significant other.

Before he arrived within a few feet of the entrance, his love exited the dual French doors of the building. He locked eyes with her, just after she saw the missed calls on her phone. Her blonde hair was bound in a ponytail, and she was wearing a casual, yet eye-drawing striped navy blue tee shirt, with a pair of bright fitting jeans. Her simplistic beauty never failed to keep him attracted.

She shut her phone, and smiled at him—rushing to his arms. The man then kissed her, and asked: "How was the test?"

She muttered, "Well…" "I convinced Doctor Connors to grade my exam before I left…" she said in an uneasy tone, negatively altering her gaze into the man's eyes.

"And?" he asked in anticipation, and slight worry.

Her facial expression completely overturned, and let out a grin again: "I aced it! I made it into his AP class next semester!"

His eyes lit up, and he sighed in relief. "Oh thank God!" he exclaimed, squeezing her tightly. "I'm so proud of you!"

She giggled, and tried prying him off her body. "Alright big guy, that's definitely good enough!"

"You know I have to express my excitement somehow." he chuckled.

"Speaking of which, you seem like you have some sort of good news!" she told him.

The man was shocked. "How did you know?"

"You called me five times while I was taking my exam; plus you're half an hour early!" she laughed.

He shrugged with a smirk, "You got me there." he nudged at her.

"So what's the news?" the woman inquired.

"You'll never believe it." he replied. "I managed to get a gig at Oscorp tonight; they're having a press release on their scandals! I'm finally gonna be on the front cover for once!"

"Holy—" she paused in shock and awe. "What? Babe, that's amazing!" she exclaimed, squeezing him just about as tight as he did to her.

He laughed at the irony. "See, you're just as aggressive as me!" pretending to gasp for air.

She smirked and hit him on the shoulder, creating distance. "Yeah, yeah." the girl chuckled.

"But really though, how did you manage to get that? I thought you said that one guy has dibs on the top stories?"

"Apparently he had to do a rain-check." he said, smirking.

"Well you have no idea how happy I am for you; you deserved this!" she replied.

"I know." he admitted, not worrying about the lack of humility. "What do you say we go out for dinner tonight, my treat? You could get some of your favorite coq au vin…" he offered to her, attempting to properly enunciate the name of the dish.

"Oh là là…" she said with a smirk, "Gladly! But...your French is still god-awful."

"How about you stick to the pronunciation, and I'll just worry about paying for the meal?" he replied along with a smile.

"Sounds good to me." she chuckled. "I'll make the reservations for you."

* * *

 _ **After time passed by...**_

"Now that's a good look on you." she told him. "You're stunning." she continued, as she watched him fix his bowtie.

"And you look even better." the man replied, admiring her pearl white formal dress. She had spent hours on her make-up and red lipstick: a look fitting the occasion of dining at a five-star restaurant.

While he was nowhere near the upper class type, the photojournalist knew that he was in for a good bonus for making the front cover; he didn't mind making an occasional investment for his love.

"You ready?" he asked her.

She nodded her head, smiling. They stepped outside into the coming dusk, and got onto his motorcycle. They set off for the Upper-East Side district, with much energy to spare.

The restaurant had a truly beautiful atmosphere, with the finest of gold trimmings and marble floors. The most wealthy of individuals sat in various groups of tables, dining on the most exquisite food that the French had to offer in New York City. They both locked arms and approached the elegant host.

"Bienvenue! How may I assist you two fine guests?" he inquired with his deep French accent.

"We have reservations for two, under Brock." he replied.

"Excellent." he told him, searching through the reservation list. "Very well, monsieur Brock. If you will both come right this way, I will gladly situate your table."

They both followed the host, and sat down at a roomy table for two. He then handed them two menus, filled with endless combinations of meals. "A waiter will be with you shortly. In the meantime, may I get you both something to quench your thirst?"

The two both looked through the menus, and both agreed on a specific type of wine.

"You say the name of it; I'd prefer not to butcher it." the man mumbled to his significant other.

She turned to the host and declared: "We'll have the Bordeaux Sec Chateau Couronneau."

"Splendid choice, madame. I will fetch you some right away." he replied, stepping off to the wine cellar. The two then turned towards each other, and began to converse.

"This place never fails to impress me—or my wallet." he chuckled while reading the menu. "It's like there are different tiers of food, designed for different classes: rich, very rich, richer, and Rockefeller rich. Or, I guess I should say Napoleon rich."

"Pretty much." she replied, chuckling with him. "You know," she said, "I think that someday, we're going to make it there."

"Oh do you?" he asked with a doubtful smirk on his face.

"Two ambitious lovers, chasing after their dreams; where's the limit?"

"Hmm, a photojournalist dating a biomedical major that's forty thousand bucks in debt...I'm thinking maybe the Bronx is our limit." he poked at her. She couldn't help laughing, and also playfully kicking his shin under the table.

"Ah!" he exclaimed in slight pain. "You know, if you break my shin and get us a hospital bill, we'll be stuck in Uptown forever!"

"You make a point." she poked back at him.

A few moments afterwards, a waiter approached them with their desired drinks. "Bonjour, here is your Chateau Couronneau that you both requested. My name is Alexandre Cassel, and I will be your servant this lovely evening. May I get you both started with an apéritif?"

The man observed the menu and stated, "Erm, I'll go ahead and get the beef bourguignon."

The waiter suddenly was thrown off guard, and almost stuttered. "Oh, the bourguignon? That is a repas principal. W-would you like an apéritif first?"

The man at the table raised an eyebrow and said. "What's the difference?"

The girl covered her face with her hand, and her elbow on the table. Though, below her hand, she was smiling and shaking her head. "What kind of appetizer do you want?" his significant other whispered to him, trying to hide the smile on her face.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in realization. "I'll uh...let her pick." he said, trying to hide from his girlfriend's contagious smile.

"That's a good idea." she followed up with him. "We'll get the...Hors d'Oeuvres to start out with."

"But of course, madame. I will be back momentarily with the dish." he replied, stepping to the kitchen.

Following a few moments of silence, the two couldn't stop themselves from laughing once they gained eye contact once more.

"Hey, we're all born with different talents!" he said in defense, chucking as he began to run out of breath. He then raised the glass of wine after a few moments, then proclaimed: "To our prosperity."

"To our prosperity." she replied, tapping her glass with his.

The wine was sweet, much more of a preference to the woman than that of the man. He preferred the taste of bitter liquor, but he didn't mind the occasional abnormality.

"How is it?" he asked her.

"Great, for the price. It was the cheapest wine I could find on the menu."

"I don't think the word 'cheap' is valid in here. The bourgeoisie big wigs behind us might get offended." he chuckled. There was silence for a moment as they looked around the room, observing many of the guests.

"So what's your game-plan for tonight?" she inquired.

"Honestly, I have no idea. All I know is that I'm getting some damn good photos, and getting as much free food as possible." he said, "What do you plan on doing while I'm gone?"

"I might as well get some studying done. I've still got a few finals to get through before the semester ends." she responded.

"Are you confident you're gonna pass?"

"Yeah, I think so. My dad would kill me if I lost my scholarship." she said.

Her boyfriend chuckled. "I doubt he'd get too mad. He's probably too happy at the moment to even worry about it." he paused and then added: " _Captain_ Stacy—now that's a solid promotion if you ask me. He could probably afford to put you through ESU twice. When's he starting the new position, anyways?"

"Next week. Apparently he's finishing up his last case as a sergeant."

A few seconds later, the man told her: "You know, he's gonna be in store for a tough first year as a captain if this Osborn case skyrockets. The gravity of those claims against him is gonna throw the whole city into chaos."

"Yeah. He asked for it, though; he wanted more responsibility." she muttered. "That means less time with the family."

"I'm sure he'll still spend a lot of time with you and your mom. You're like his princess." he assured her.

She chuckled, "Yeah, and he still doesn't know that his princess has a prince."

"I'll get to meeting him eventually. I want to get a good resumé before I introduce myself to his prized daughter, you know? I don't have much to go on right now."

"I think you're scared." she joked with him.

His eyebrows raised, "What? No, no—nah. You just don't know how men work." he said in defense of his ego.

"Suuuure." she said with a smirk on her face.

"Just...go back to drinking your stupid fancy wine." he muttered.

* * *

 _ **Back at the apartment...**_

"Be careful while you're out tonight; it's supposed to pour down soon." she told him.

"I'm less worried about my bike, and more about my tux getting drenched." he replied.

"I think you should make it before the storm. I just don't know about it on the way out."

"I'll just bring my coat and hope for the best. Hopefully nobody steals it off my bike." he said, putting on his walnut colored trench coat.

"Seems like a bourgeoisie problem to me.' she replied, poking fun at him from earlier. He chuckled in response as he kept his back turned from her, and towards the mirror.

"Hey," she said, waiting for her boyfriend to turn around. "I love you."

He smiled and kissed her on the lips. "I love you too." he said lowly, appreciating the moment, despite their repeating sarcasm.

"Give em' hell tonight, stud." she replied.

He nodded, grabbed his camera, and opened the door to the neon lights of the run-down neighborhood. He stepped onto his bike, and drove off into the never-ending traffic of Manhattan.

* * *

The soundwaves of the exhaust practically shook the asphalt out of the streets of New York. He was by no means late for the banquet, but he simply wanted to enjoy the sheer rush of horsepower. Sure, he'd have to fix his hair before he went inside; but it was worth the cosmetic inconvenience.

The man dodged in and out of traffic, maintaining as much speed as possible in the urban playground. Only a few blocks remained before he would arrive at his destination: that towering skyscraper. So, he made the most out of it. By the the time that he arrived into the underground parking lot, he probably caused a few minor heart attacks from the nearby pedestrians. That wasn't much concern to him at this point.

He pulled up to the ballistic projectile-resistant shelter beside the gate, and held out a barcoded identification card, which read " _Press_ " in bold text. The guard, donning a plate carrier and neutral-colored uniform, scanned the card, and took a good look into the eyes of the motorcyclist.

"Turn left once you get past the first row. Journalists park in the spaces marked in red." he muttered, almost sounding robotic. He quite obviously spent the majority of the night repeating that line.

The man nodded in response, and pulled into his prioritized slot. He then kicked his stand down to stabilize the bike, and parted his brown hair back into place. Next he took off his coat, and placed it onto his motorcycle. He then finally fixed his black tie back into center-mass, and pushed his hair back into place.

The elevator was a few steps away from him, with a few other individuals idly waiting. The doors soon opened, and they poured inside. The attendant in the elevator welcomed them, and confirmed that they all were present for the banquet. He then set the destination for the twenty eighth floor.

Moments passed, and the doors parted once more. The attendant stated: "Feel free to help yourselves to the designated drink section for the media, and enjoy the banquet!"

Frank Sinatra's chorus of "New York" played throughout the room, giving much of an elegant vibe as an introduction. Dozens of journalists, production assistants, and Oscorp representatives conversed in the open ballroom. Some were even dancing in the hub, while others continued to have a little bit too much to drink. That last part seemed quite appealing to the man, so he walked over to one of the many wine tables, adjacent from the cameras in the room.

He stepped up to a dispenser, and poured himself a full glass. There was an attractive female a few feet beside him, getting herself a drink as well. Her dark hair was in a formal bun, and her rich mint green eyes were bold with black eyeliner. The young lady was in a breathtaking sequin dress, which almost directly resembled the beauty of the cosmos.

The man glanced at her, then looked back at his glass of wine. He then turned back to her, and looked at her once more. This time, he enjoyed it.

He cleared his throat, and smirked. "Excuse me, miss. Do you uh—have any idea what this is?"

She slightly turned her cheek and said, "It's Lafite Rothschild, I believe."

The man took a sip of it, and much enjoyed the taste. "It's good quality, that's for sure."

"Seventy year old wine tends to be so." she smiled.

He raised an eyebrow, realizing that he was probably drinking something worth more than his past paycheck.

"Not used to having a quality drink?"

"Oh no—I'm a photojournalist."

She chuckled with him. "Ah, I see! Where at?"

"The Daily Bugle. The name's Eddie Brock—I'm somewhat of a new guy to the business." he said, holding out his hand.

She shook it and said, "Ah yes, the Bugle! I'm Arella Markson—Public Relations Specialist of Oscorp Industries."

"Pleasure' to meet you." he said with a smile on his face.

"Likewise." she replied, allowing for a few moments of silence. "So, are you the next person to take on the monopoly of Parker?"

Eddie chuckled, "Yeah, I suppose so. He apparently called out sick tonight, so this seems to be my best—and maybe my only—shot at getting the golden bone."

"Sick?" she chuckled, and slightly scoffed. "I'm sure that's the reason." Arella mumbled.

A few moments passed for Eddie to process that sentence. "What do you mean by that?" he curiously asked.

She remained silent for a moment, with a frozen facial expression.

"I would love to continue to chat, Mister Brock, but I have other priorities with other parties. Perhaps we could converse some other time." she said to him, with a smirk on her face. "Enjoy the rest of the party." she added, walking away with a sway in her hips.

"Y...Yeah…you too." he said lowly, not expecting her to hear it. Eddie was standing in the same spot, stumped from what she said to him.

 _What was that supposed to mean?_ He pondered.

Once he snapped out of his trance, Eddie took a few photos of the banquet, and one of Arella as she stood in a large group of executives. Suddenly, a trio of individuals stopped directly in front of Eddie's shots in order to converse. The disruption irritated him, so he asked them to move out of the way.

"Who gave you the authority to take pictures whenever you want? Can't you see we're talkin' here?" one of the younger men said, wearing a _New York Times_ press pass. He obviously had a little bit too much to drink.

"The First Amendment did, you dimwit." Eddie barked.

The man seemed baffled. "Oh, you wanna talk about the Constitution? How about the fact that you're disturbing the peace by interrupting my conversation?"

The other two men mumbled in his ear, telling him to back off.

"Maybe you should listen to your friends. They seem to be more sober than you, and maybe a little more intelligent." Eddie told him.

The man looked at Eddie's press pass, and laughed.

"You're—you're telling me to back off from YOU: a Bugle boy?" he continued laughing maniacally. "Give me a break!" he blurted, throwing his drink in Eddie's face.

His friends looked at him in shock of what he just did. Eddie turned his cheek, and spit out some of the residue from his lips. He then threw a right hook to the drunk's jawline, dropping him cold. His head bluntly bounced off the marble floor, and a pool of blood poured from his cut lip. Quite a few people turned around to see the commotion, including Arella.

Eddie dumped his drink on the man's face, and said "Cheers!" to the man's accomplices. He then started to walk away after taking a picture of the unconscious reporter. However, a member of the security detail stopped him. He demanded an answer.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he told him, looking at the man on the ground.

"What? It was self-defense." Eddie said, wiping his face off with a handkerchief from his front pocket.

The guard looked back at the man's friends tending to him. They both looked up in embarrassment, and nodded out of agreement. One of them apologized on behalf of the young man.

The guard looked back at Eddie. "Just...don't get caught up in another incident like this. We're in a charity event, for god's sake."

"No problem. I'll just stay away from the snobs." he said. "Where's the washroom?"

"Just across the room, over by the speakers." he pointed in the general direction.

Eddie thanked him, and pressed the empty glass against the guard's chest as he walked by, and gave it to him—indirectly telling the man to clean up the mess.

Eddie locked eyes with Arella from across the room, who smirked at him in admiration. He winked at her.

He opened the men's washroom, and went over to a nearby sink to clean up. His white shirt was stained with red wine, and the collar of his jacket was noticeably drenched. He did his best to clean everything off with paper towels, but the damage was already done.

He sighed and mumbled, "Looks like I'm going to the dry-cleaner's tomorrow…"

* * *

Eddie eventually stepped back out into the audience, and watched Arella as she stepped onto the stage. He pulled out his camera once more as she walked up to the microphone, and asked for everyone's attention. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming to this wonderful event tonight. I hope you all are having a wonderful time." she continued, "I won't keep most of you waiting for the Man of the Hour, since some of you seem to be getting less sober by the minute." Arella said, looking towards the cleanup crew near the wine table. The audience laughed. "So, go ahead and prepare your cameras! Please, give a round of applause for Director Harry Osborn!"

Roaring chants of praise came from the mouths of hundreds in the auditorium. Meanwhile, the crimson and gold trim curtains retracted back into their opening position.

In a stunning onyx tuxedo, vest, and pure white shirt and bowtie, the Director of Oscorp Industries stood tall and illustrious in front of his audience. His smile of accomplishment glared into the dozens of cameras, and his bronze irises lit up the morale of his fellow employees. After waving his hand to them, he stepped up to the microphone on the podium, and shook Arella's hand. She then walked off the stage, giving the whole spotlight to him.

"Thank you, thank you all!" he declared over the voices of the crowd. As the voices raised higher, he cracked an even larger smile than before, and breathed in the pride. Soon, the voices calmed down.

"Wow, we're in a hell of a mood tonight, aren't we?" he chuckled as the music slowly faded.

"Thank you all so much for being here tonight, especially my fellow colleagues at Oscorp Industries. I must thank you all for your incredible contributions to this organization; whether you're an investor, engineer, financial analyst, or any other asset to this company, you all had a priceless role in our accomplishments these past few months. Oh, and of course: thanks to the press, who has kept things quite interesting in recent times—and certainly helped me step on a few banana peels along the way." the audience chuckled.

"Now, I know why many of you are here tonight—and I promise that I will get to your many anticipations shortly. However, I must first address the entire reason for this banquet in the first place." he advanced.

"Tonight, I am here to address the War on Crime. Criminal activity has been an issue in New York City since the prohibition era—a time in which many of you probably would have become mobsters to get your hands on alcohol." he joked, "Statistically speaking, we are on track to becoming the most crime-stricken city in America—which is not a title to be proud of. Our fellow protector of the city: the New York Police Department, is seeing an overwhelming amount of crime in the recent months following the disaster of Doctor Otto Octavius. They cannot keep up with the rising numbers, and they certainly cannot contain the rise of terror cells in the city without more federal funding."

"However, given the recent decline of the economy, and the rise of military action in Afghanistan, Washington is having much more issues focusing on our domestic abnormalities. They are almost leaving our wonderful state in the dust, to where our local governments are forced to raise taxes on our working class in order to relatively maintain the peace! Even that isn't doing enough to protect the citizens; there are so many that are hoping to be protected by masked vigilantes who live by anarchy! This is atrocious; and I for one cannot stand by and watch my birth city crumble to ashes by criminal degenerates!"

"Henceforth, I have realized that we can no longer rely on federal funding to shield our growing population. I am here to announce that Oscorp Industries will be pumping an immediate ten billion dollar stimulus into the funding of the New York Police Department, and local anti-crime and poverty organizations." he boldly proclaimed. The audience, astounded by Osborn's statement, applauded his philanthropic contribution.

"We cannot allow the peace to be lost in this beautiful city due to the negligence of our politicians in Washington! In addition, I have spoken with Governor Greg Thompson about this action to combat crime in our communities, and we have come to a personal solution to the lack of policing in key areas of New York. While our stimulus will aid in the hiring of new officers of the law, the benefits of this package will take time to have a significant difference on our neighborhoods." he told the audience.

"The reason behind this is due to the extreme measures our local police department takes to ensure that their officers are in top condition to uphold the Constitution, and will resist the temptation of corruption. In the past few years, their updated training has proven to take months to complete, thereby leaving a large time gap for criminals to take advantage of the lack of new officers. While our funding will aid in the increased payment and benefits of the NYPD's officers, and give them state-of-the art equipment to fight crime, the simple lack in numbers will prove to be mostly ineffective in the macro-level of criminal activity."

"Therefore, Governor Thompson and Oscorp Industries has agreed to signing a temporary agreement to allow the use of counter-crime units, composed of former veterans of the United States' beloved military, former officers of the law, private military contractors, and Oscorp's very own security personnel." he paused, "Now of course, I know what some of you in the media business may be thinking: and no, these counter crime units will not have the same level of authority as our boys in blue. They are classified as private entities under the United States Constitution, and will abide by the laws of our country. In layman's terms, you may think of them as part of an 'enhanced neighborhood watch' program."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. _...What…?_ He thought to himself.

"These units will have the right, just as any other neighborhood watch member, to apprehend suspects of a crime, and temporarily detain individuals until an actual officer of the law arrives to arrest the citizen. They will have no authority to infringe on our unalienable rights, so there is no worry on that part. By having qualified, state-licensed individuals combating crime, instead of masked vigilantes beating criminals to a pulp, and sometimes killing them, we can restore our public's trust in our local authorities, and rely less on anarchy to maintain the peace."

"With that being stated, I have a word I would like to share on the topic of vigilantes. Specifically, the more well-known one: namely, the Spider-Man. Many citizens of New York idolize this man as their hero, when in fact, Spider-Man is perhaps the greatest threat to peace and stability as we know it. While many point to his 'noble' apprehension of criminals—which sometimes includes innocent individuals—Spider-Man has been responsible for the deaths of several people in the past few years...including my beloved father." he stated, allowing a long pause in the audience as cameras flickered every millisecond. This was the moment the media was waiting for.

"I...have yet to speak of much about my father since his untimely death. However, in light of the recent media attention, and theories proposed, I have come to announce a few important statements on his death."

"For over two years, the police report that was filed the night of his death has remained classified, as personally requested by myself. In the past, we at Oscorp never released the cause of his death; but in truth, I am here to announce that on the night of October 7th, 2002, Norman Osborn was murdered." Several low gasps were heard in the audience. Eddie continued to get dozens of pictures of Harry's traumatic announcement.

"On that night, when I was inside of my manor, I walked into my father's bedroom to an absolute tragedy. In that room laid Norman Osborn, on his deathbed. While this was enough of a horrible moment, an additional detail absolutely tore me apart from the inside. Beside his lifeless body was none other than the masked vigilante: Spider-man. As I shouted at him, and asked what he had done, he rushed out the window, and retreated from my sight like a coward. If you look at the screen beside me, you will observe the exterior building's closed-circuit footage of what happened that night: with Spider-Man carrying my lifeless father on his shoulder, and breaking into my home. You can even slightly make out the tatters in his outfit, showing that my father tried to put up a fight against the killer."

Eddie immediately took photos of the newly released footage, thrown off in shock.

"Now yes, this of course raises many questions: most importantly, what exactly happened to cause his death; and furthermore, what the motive was." he said, "This comes to another piece of truth that must be mentioned. I am here to confirm that yes, Norman Osborn was indeed under the alias of the so-called 'Goblin' at the time. My father was a man who was mentally traumatized, in light of his psychological torment from his fellow colleagues at this company—who betrayed him in the workplace. He was by no means a perfect man; he was a victim of a mental sickness, who was denied the right to live, and to receive treatment. Spider-Man was said to have fought him that night, near the Manhattan Bridge. Spider-Man, who was illegally pursuing a fight with Norman Osborn, had the power to save him, in light of his own crimes of vigilantism. He has bodily enhancement that no human being could ever obtain; he is a meta among men; yet he chose the path of murder. Who in their right mind would take the life of someone, when they have the power to SAVE them, and allow them to have the right to a fair trial, and due process?" he exclaimed emotionally, with tears nearly forming in his eyes.

A few seconds of complete silence passed, as those words pierced the hearts of the members of the audience. Not even one camera flicked for five seconds straight. A new image appeared on the television screen.

In a low, and serious tone, Harry Osborn continued. "...Need we forget Spider-Man's other victims? Take Dennis Carradine, whose police report is only now being released to the public. There were mere reports from the press on this man's death in 2002, but none contained several key facts of the event. Dennis Carradine, middle aged man who robbed a local wrestling event on the night of his death. As he fled from the authorities, it was never established what truly happened after his vehicular accident at a vacant warehouse. The truth, as written in the police report, states that after several gunshots were heard by authorities, Mister Carradine, father of two, was pushed out of a top-story window, and plunged to his death directly after. Police identified the suspected killer as a young, white male, in a red and blue outfit, with a symbol in the middle—somewhat resembling the primitive suit of Spider-Man, as shown in this image that was taken the night of the event, where Spider-Man actually competed in one of the wrestling matches."

 _How the hell did he get his hands on those reports…?_ Eddie thought to himself.

"How about Doctor Otto Octavius—a man who was traumatized by the death of his wife, and corrupted by artificial intelligence—who was found dead in a nearby pier just two months ago? Where was the mercy of Spider-Man then? Do you all notice a pattern with this supposed 'hero'?" Harry said, "He _murders_ anybody that he deems is too dangerous for a fair trial! What kind of a hero is that?"

"I think we should come to appreciate and support our local police department more, instead of these terroristic anarchists. We here at Oscorp believe we can do this by our stimulus package and counter-crime programs; and we urge you to support this much needed aid to the city of New York. In addition, I personally call for an uprising of protests against the so-called Spider-Man, and request that he be arrested, and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law! Do it for our children—our loved ones— _our city!_ " he proclaimed, with an incredible amount of applause following it.

 _Holy shit._ Eddie thought, completely speechless.

"Thank you all so much for your support! If you wish to donate along with Oscorp, please visit the guest station across the room, near the elevator. Your contributions are greatly appreciated, and once again, on behalf of Governor Thompson and Oscorp, we appreciate you all for coming tonight. May we truly see a fundamental change in this War on Crime within our near future. Thank you!" he exclaimed as the curtains closed.

He exhaled with a smile on his face, as the crimson curtains stood shut. He continued starting straight, and exclaimed, "Someone get me a drink!" with his smirk still present. As a servant fetched a glass of scotch, a familiar face approached him backstage.

"Ah, Arella!" he initiated with a smile on his face as well.

"Director Osborn, that was an incredible speech! Thank you so much for hosting this event; it's all so wonderful." she told him in admiration.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Markson. I'm glad to see that you made it here; and please, call me 'Harry.'" he responded, giving her a welcoming handshake. "Might I say—you're stunning in that outfit; I'm used to seeing you in business attire!" he added.

Arella's cheeks blushed slightly, "Oh, well thank you, Direc—I mean, Harry!"

Harry smirked, "I'm so proud of you for getting that deal with Thompson. Congratulations on getting that in the bag! I know you worked hard to negotiate it." he complimented, taking a sip out of his glass.

"Thank you so much! Yeah, I think I worked about forty hours overtime every week to get this done. It wasn't easy, but it was all worth it. I'm honored to have been a part of the project." she replied.

"Speaking of honor, you should be awarded for your efforts..." Harry said. "Perhaps you would like to have dinner sometime?"

"Oh—I would love to!" she said to him unexpectedly.

"Good. Once the party's over, maybe we'll think out the plans. I don't want to keep your accomplices out there waiting for you." Harry said, winking.

"That sounds great to me." she replied. "Meet me back here at nine?"

"Of course." he responded with a smirk.

She let out a smile, attempting to appear somewhat professional, despite her lust. She then walked off to the hub of the room, returning to her socialization with several executives of Oscorp Industries.

Meanwhile, Harry received the glass of scotch, and slowly enjoyed its crisp, smooth taste. He observed the downpour of rain through the broad window; the thunder of the storm roared throughout the city, almost as if it was the spark of the drums of war: a war on vigilantism—a war on the Spider.

The lightning continued to strike the distant landscape, illuminating the urban jungle set before him. He gazed at an adjacent skyscraper, only a few hundred feet away from himself. As he looked closer, and observed the detail of the shadows, it almost appeared that he could make out a silhouette in the darkness—knelt toward the skyscraper...

Through the rain, in true reality, the lightning reflected from the silver lenses on the figure's scarlet mask. The rain dripped down from his shoulders, and off the tips of his fingers. He mutually gazed at the window containing the director of Oscorp Industries, feeling as if he was staring into the eyes of a lost soul. He never wanted this, but he knew that it was coming; _it was only a matter of time_. It infuriated him; his comrade—something of a brother to him, was now bound as his adversary. The figure clenched his fist with a blood-boiling tremor, straining the water through his fingers.

Osborn could almost feel the absolute resentment from the figure; it flowed into Harry's own rising heartbeat. Soon, it raised the hairs on the back of his neck—sent chills down his spine...

...And then it made him smile.


	2. Attention Unearthed Fans: Announcement!

**Attention Unearthed Fans: Announcement!**

Attention true believers, this is UberDoc, back from the dead! I have been quite busy with my first two semesters of college. During this time, I have been working closely with my assistant plot analyst, DarvosFan, in order to produce a more professional, true-to-its-roots story. My writing has evolved over the past year and a half since I started this project, and the way I tell stories has matured quite a bit. I've learned a lot from my mistakes and revisions, and I have decided to take the existing material of the story, and transform it into something that has never been seen before. I want this story to captivate the reader with a gripping narrative: one that doesn't contain accidental plot-holes, and rudimentary dialogue. I want to captivate what the real world would look like if we had a street-level vigilante fighting crime, just as the first two movies portrayed in an incredible manner—especially in Rami's _Spider-Man 2_.

In order to do this, I have extracted the current material in all chapters, and placed them in a document to be edited over the coming months as I continue to work on the revisions of this story. However, fear not! I have already released a thorough and brand new prologue, which will establish the new and improved plot of the story! If you wish to continue reading Unearthed, you must eventually read this new prologue. There will still be many scenes from the old material, but much of it will be changed to fit in line with the new plot.

An important note: I am not deconstructing the backbone of this story. The conflict between Peter and Harry, also along with Peter and Eddie, is the core of the plot. It will not be changed. However, the means in which this conflict is portrayed will be completely overhauled—for the better. I can promise you that it will be well worth the wait, and you can see so by reading the new official prologue to Spider-Man 3: Unearthed. Thank you all for the incredible support! We have reached over 13,000 views of the story, and I cannot be more excited to continue on this story in the upcoming year.

 **Happy New Year, Everyone!**

 ** _-UberDoc_**


	3. Chapter 1: Genesis

**Chapter 1: Genesis**

 **Author's note:** _The only notable change I made since I posted the new prologue has to do with George Stacy (Gwen's father). Instead of his upcoming promotion coming in a month from the prologue, I now changed it to be scheduled to a week afterwards._

 **A Quick Q/A for understanding the plot:**

 _ **Q:** When is this story set in relation to the Spider-Man 2 film? **A:** It is set a couple months after the end of the movie. This makes a lot more sense to me, compared to waiting for an entire year for Peter and Harry to be in conflict._

 ** _Q:_** _What year is Spider-Man 3: Unearthed set in?_ _ **A:** It is set in late May of 2004._

 ** _Q:_** _Who is Eddie Brock modeled after? Is he Topher Grace? **A:** No, he is not. Eddie in this story is 6 foot, 2 inches and 205 pounds. He's quite a bit bigger than Topher, to say the least. He's actually modeled after Brett Owens—the actor for Eddie Brock in "Marvel Knights: Spider-Man."_

 _ **Q:** What about Gwen Stacy? Who is she modeled after? **A:**_ _Bryce Dallas Howard—the original actress in Spider-Man 3._

* * *

The the images on his dilapidated television kept him in quite blank state of disbelief. The headline: _"CEO of Oscorp Industries Accuses Spider-Man of Capital Murder_ " kept Peter in enough shock as it was; however, he felt as if something worse was brewing in the coming storm. It wasn't just just the bureaucratic power grab, or the sheer act of fighting for the purging vigilantism; Harry's personal hatred toward Peter was enough to leave him speechless and agonized in psychological shock. Perhaps this event combining with another restless night didn't help his current situation, but that was much beside the point. The city was on the verge of chaos, and Peter had no idea how to stop it.

"— _While these protesters are small in small numbers, their numbers have substantially grown over the past few hours. Most of the parties are peaceful; however, a few arrests had already been made to some more radical individuals near 5th Avenue."_ said the anchorman.

"You've gotta be kidding me…" Peter muttered.

A few moments following that remark, Peter heard a gentle knock on his door. He stood up from his bed, crumbling a few of the scattered sheets of paper on the mattress. Peter slightly struggled to open the door, meeting a little bit of resistance from the hinges. Once he managed to get it unstuck, he laid eyes on his landlord's daughter with an appetizing plate of homemade pancakes and eggs.

"Hi Pete." she said with a smile on her face. "I brought some breakfast, if you're hungry."

Peter smirked. He needed this kind of good news in his day. "Oh wow...thanks!" he replied.

"No problem! I hope you like them." she told him. Ursula looked over his shoulder after handing him the plate, noticing the mess of papers around his room. "Geez...did you stay up all night doing homework? I can get you some coffee, if you want."

Peter paused and then said, "Yeah, something like that. It's an...engineering project." he continued, "And that's alright, I'm already pretty awake."

"Okay, if you need a pick me up today, just let me know! And good luck on it!" she replied, walking away to the staircase.

"Thanks!" Peter replied, closing the door without locking it.

Peter turned around and looked at his 'project.' He picked up one paper from his bed, and looked at the numerous calculations on it. It took him several months, but he finally figured out an optimal material to create his new suit out of. His footnotes read the following, highlighted in yellow:

" _Incredibly thin, carbon nanotube-based alloys combined with ballistically-woven spandex—a perfect combination of protection and comfort. This gives decent resistance to sharpened blades of the straight edge variety, and is designed to slow the velocity of a projectile of the common handgun calibers. In other words, while this isn't necessarily armor, the material will absorb most of the impact from 9mm parabellum ammunition, and about half the joules from of a .40 and .45 caliber round. This can lessen the chance of a gunshot wound being lethal—especially from hollow point ammunition. Of course, it will still hurt like nothing else in the world. As a side note: full mounted jacket rounds are a concern, but the material is still partially effective against that type of ammunition. Not to mention, all of this will be homemade: straight from Empire State University's student laboratory. It doesn't get any better than that."_ it read.

Peter felt a sense of pride from his hard work. While the project was nowhere near completed, he already created a prototype of the mask on his makeshift mannequin. He figured that he would take a quick peek at it while enjoying the plate of syrup-covered pancakes in his hand. Peter opened the closet door, and stared at the mask with a smile. It was beautiful to him—a masterpiece of craftsmanship. It was too bad that he knew it would inevitably be worn and torn from daily use.

Peter smirked at his accomplishment, and stood still for a moment to take a bite of his pancake in one hand, while holding the plate in the other. After chewing for a few moments, Peter's moment of pride went to a halt. He could sense an individual quickly approaching the door, which he just now realized was still unlocked. In an act of panic, he took a huge bite of the pancake and held it in his mouth so he could shut off his closet from sight. His front door quickly opened after a second of working through the damaged hinges, and Peter slammed his closet shut, throwing him off balance. He turned towards the person in the entrance at the same time, and tripped over himself—accidentally slamming the plate into the wall.

"Peter!" a familiar voice said in excitement, knowing that today is his rent day, "Oh...is this a bad time?" he asked.

"Uh—y-yeah, it is, Mr. Ditkovich..." Peter replies, looking down at the maple syrup covered all over the floor with the food.

Mr. Ditkovich chuckled. "Ah, okay, okay. I see. I will be back later, and we will talk about my rent money for tonight, yes?"

"Yeah—we'll...talk about it later." he replied.

Mr. Ditkovich then made the "O.K." symbol with his fingers, and gave Peter a thumbs up—slowly backing out of the door.

Peter flicked the syrup off his hands, and looked around for a towel.

* * *

Following Peter's clean-up episode, he found himself downstairs, prepared to take off for work. His Canon EOS-1D was slung around his neck, and he was dressed in a light blue button-up shirt with a pair of pressed khakis. He informed Mr. Ditkovich that he would bring his check home later that night, and thanked Ursula again for the breakfast. He left out the part of what he accidentally did with the food after receiving it.

As he stepped outside, he enjoyed the view of the beautiful weather beyond the skyscrapers; though, the streets were still soaked with rainwater from the previous night. The sunshine nevertheless gleamed over the puddles, glaring into Peter's sight. He signaled a taxi from across the street, and opened its door once the vehicle came to a halt.

"Hey." Peter said, sitting beside the driver.

"Where to, kid?" he asked.

"The Daily Bugle, on 5th Avenue." Peter replied.

"You got it." he told Peter, taking off to the fastest route. He took a right on the coming intersection.

"So," the cab driver said, "You' work there or somethin'?"

"Yeah, I'm a freelancer." he replied.

"Hoah man, I can't imagine what's going on inside that building right now. Good luck on dealing with that." he chuckled.

"I'm...prepared for the worst." Peter remarked.

A few traffic lights passed by before the conversation continued. "What do ya' think about all of this, anyway?"

"It's a mess." Peter muttered.

"You got that right." the driver continued, "I just can't gather the idea of Spidey being that dirty, ya' know? My kids look up to the guy; I can't believe he'd do something like that." He paused for a few seconds, then added "—Especially to that one guy's father."

Peter hesitated, then said: "If there's one thing I've learned by working at the Bugle, it's that there's always two sides to a story."

"I guess, but Spider-Man doesn't seem like the type to get in front of a camera and talk about this stuff. He's neva' done it before, anyway." the man stated.

"Maybe he'll have to this time." Peter suggested.

* * *

"Judas H. Priest, look at this..." the driver muttered out at the stacked up traffic. "What's goin' on here?"

Peter rose up in his seat slightly, looking into the distance. The idle vehicles stretched for hundreds of yards.

"Is there a wreck up there or somethin'?" the driver said.

Parker concentrated, and could make out a line of individuals locking their arms together from one side of the street to the other.

"Some people are blocking the road." Peter told him.

"Yeah? What for?"

"They're probably protesting." Peter mentioned.

"Give me a frickin' break…" the driver murmured. "I haven't seen a mess like this since the 70s."

"Yeah, I'm thinking I might have to walk." Peter said.

"What time do you gotta be at work?"

"In thirty minutes. Forty if my boss is having a good day." Peter replied thereafter he glanced at his watch.

The driver chuckled, "Then you might wanna' start tap-dancing down the sidewalk, kid. This ain't gonna clear up for another hour if the badges don't start showing up soon."

About thirty seconds passed after that statement. Peter then reached into his wallet. "How much for the ride?"

"Just...give me a ten and I'll be fine." the driver said with a slight sigh.

Peter reached into his wallet and gave him a twenty dollar bill. "Here—keep the change. Sorry to get you jammed in this."

The driver smirked and said, "Thanks, kid."

Peter shut the door after stepping out, and began walking down the sidewalk. He passed by several individuals who had the same idea as him.

In the distance, he could make out the young college-age students who were locked in arms. Their chant was even slightly audible to Peter: " _No more masks—Lock away the rat!"_ over and over again. Peter shook his head and continued walking in their direction.

He couldn't help put pay close attention to their actions. He had dealt with protesters before; Peter wasn't sure why this seemed to stick to him more than usual.

In the back of his mind, he felt something violent brewing. He could sense the boiling blood of the commuters. Once Peter saw a few angered citizens step out from their car and toward the protesters, he started running toward them.

One citizen was shouting in the face of a link from the human chain, telling them all to move before he makes them move. Several others banded behind him, not brave enough to take the first shot. Peter bolted to keep the situation from escalating.

"Get the hell out of the way! We all have places to be, you know!" the leading man said. The guy already seemed to be having a bad day, given his noticeable bruise on his jaw from a rough night at the Oscorp banquet.

"We aren't moving an inch until that creep is put behind bars! We won't stand for oppression in this city!" one young protester replied.

"Oppression?" he busted out laughing, "I outta crack your skull right now, you hypocritical son of a—!" he attempted to say before being cut off by Peter.

"How about we both keep it cool so none of us end up calling in sick? You know, if you guys bash each other's heads in, nobody's getting a paycheck today!" Peter suggested in an attempt to negotiate, trying to buy time for the police to step in.

The man scoffed. "Yeah, tell that to my boss. He isn't gonna pay me squat if I don't show up before my deadline!"

Peter looked down at his press pass, which read _New York Times_. "You and me both. All more the reason to keep things calm." he said, pulling out his Bugle press pass from his shirt pocket. "So why don't you just let the guys in blue sort this out?" Peter continued, pointing his hand in the direction of the NYPD officers rushing to the commotion.

The Times reporter sighed. "Yeah...whatever." he mumbled, walking back to his sedan. The group behind him slowly disbanded as the cops filled in their gaps, breaking up the chain peacefully. Peter turned to one of the officers, who nodded at Parker in appreciation.

* * *

 ** _At the Daily Bugle…_**

Stacks of countless files, photos, and notes were piled on the left side of the redwood desk, while three bottles of prescription pills and a computer filled the right side. Poster-size newspaper covers of Spider-Man were placed on all sides of the wall, headlined typically with a menacing title. Sitting in the chocolate-colored rolling leather rolling chair was none other than the big man himself, J. Jonah Jameson. In front of him was a whiteboard, with an employee of the Bugle, Wesley, standing in front.

"As you know, in wake of the commotion at Oscorp last night, I have a good feeling that the news is about to become popular and 'cool' again among the young crowds of the city. Even without that, I would say that the circulation of the Bugle has been pretty good without them, but it's about to be even better!" he said, "Though not as good as the New York Times, or the Daily News, or the Post, or several other smaller—" Wesley attempted to say before J.J cut him off in irritation.

"Get on with it, moron!" J.J yelled. Following his blow out, a loud buzzing sound filled the room, shaking his desk. "What?" He asked, looking over at Miss Brant through his glass window.

"Your blood pressure, Mr. Jameson." she replied, "Your wife told me to tell you to watch the anger."

J.J's facial expression tightened in anger, "You tell my wife...!" he barked furiously, pausing for a moment before calming down, lowly stating," "'Thank you.'" he slightly raised both of his hands, pointing at Wesley to continue.

Wesley pointed towards the whiteboard. "So, I propose this campaign to hook in our new viewers: _'DAILY BUGLE_ ' - that's obvious. ' _IT'S HIP, IT'S NOW_ ' - I came up with that one. ' _IT'S WOW_ ' - that's actually Eric's. ' _AND HOW_!' - that's me again." he said, right before Betty buzzed in J.J again. He jumped in surprise.

"Time to take your pill." she said. J.J reached for the first bottle, being buzzed in again. "Not that one." he reached for the other bottle, greeted by another heart stopping buzz. "Not that one." she stated, now starting to slightly enjoy messing with her boss. J.J's anger levels began to rise. He carefully pointed to the third pill bottle, double checking for confirmation. She nodded in response. J.J gladly picked up the bottle, and opened the cap. However, he was cut off by another desk-shaking buzz from Miss Brant, who now was completely messing with him for the enjoyment. J.J's hands shook as the desk jolted, spilling the pills everywhere. "Drink plenty of water." she said with a smirk.

A heated J.J replied with a bitterly calm statement. "Thank you." he said with a fake smile. "Continue." He said to Wesley.

Outside Jameson's office, an upbeat Eddie Brock stepped up to Betty Brant with a stack of photos in his hands.

"Oh hey Eddie!" she said. "He's busy right now."

"That's fine, I'll just talk to you in the meantime, babe." he remarked.

She uncomfortably smirked, looking down—not expecting to be hit on. Betty breathed in through her nose, and raised her eyebrow. "What's that smell?"

"It's a little something called ' _Nice N' Easy_.'" he said, "What's on you, hot lips?"

"It's called ' _Check the Ring Finger_.'" she replied, slightly raising her hand. Eddie chuckled, not expecting her to be engaged.

Suddenly the double doors opened, seeing a frightened Wesley being chased out by a furious J.J. "That is the dumbest idea you've ever had! And you have had some pretty daunting—"

"Blood pressure…" Betty told him.

Eddie walked into the office, standing confidently.

"Who are you?" J.J asked.

"You hired him two weeks ago." a tall and dark skinned Robbie said, who now had a few more gray hairs on his head. "Freelancer." he added.

"I did?" J.J inquired. "What's that smell?"

"Brock, sir. Eddie Allen Brock." Eddie replied while reaching out his hand for a handshake. "Wow, I really like that shirt." he added in, complementing J.J.

J.J turned to Robbie, smirking, "He likes my shirt." he said.

Minutes later, Peter entered the main press room, walking up to Miss Brant for permission to enter Jonah's office.

"Hey, Pete...You better get in the quickly. The it looks like new guy is smooth-talking the boss into using only his pictures on today's paper." she said.

"New guy?" Peter asked in curiosity.

"You'll see." she told him. Peter nodded his head, and opened the door to a surprisingly lively J.J talking to Eddie.

He turned his head when Peter walked in the door, "Parker! You're late, maybe too late. The new guy's already thrown all his cards on the table. What was your name again, son?"

"Brock, sir. Eddie Brock."

"This kid got some incredible shots of Osborn, and even knocked a New York Times reporter out cold! Look at that poor sob!" he said, laughing out loud.

Peter's facial expression turned to slight distaste as he looked at Eddie. He recognized the man in the picture from earlier.

"Why the sour face, kid? He had it coming. The guy threw his drink in my face." Eddie assured Peter.

"It's gonna make a great compliment to the front cover. Hell, just for that, I'm giving you the whole edition to yourself!" J.J said, blowing smoke from his mouth.

"Woah woah wait, Mister Jameson, I'm already behind on my rent; I need at least something here!" Peter said back to him, showing him his collection of pictures from the last week.

Jameson picked them up, barely glancing at each once. "Boring—awful—stupid—ridiculous—" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Is that a kitten…?" he paused,"Not happening. Stop bringing me garbage, and then you'll get your check." Jameson concluded.

Peter took the pictures back, and looked at Robbie. "I'll have something you can do for me to make up for it. Just wait until after this." Robbie said. Peter nodded.

"Sit down, Parker. We've got a lot to talk about." Jameson told Peter.

"I've gotta address the elephant in the room. What Osborn said last night has blown up the entire city, and what you see outside's only the beginning. Spider-Man's finally being shown as the true criminal that he is deep down, and the people can't take it."

"—Sir, Osborn's claims are unfounded! He's twisting the facts of those three men's deaths to bend to his agenda." Peter immediately interjected.

"And what's that agenda?" Jameson demanded.

"It's clearly a direct power grab to bend the police against Spider-Man!" Peter retaliated.

"And why's that a bad thing? He's a menace!" Jameson barked.

"Spider-Man is trying to protect the city from people who threaten our way of life! Osborn is just blowing smoke to cover his father's sins—and maybe to hide some of his own."

"You want to talk about unfounded claims! Look at what you just said! Harry Osborn has no criminal history, and yet you think he has skeletons in his closet?"

Eddie interjected into the conversation: "—Mister Jameson, can't two things be true at once? Couldn't Osborn have cut a deal with the devil to get the press off his back? And couldn't Spider-Man have murdered those three bozos?"

Jameson took a moment to let the silence sink in as he chewed on his cigar. "Go on." he said.

"I mean—take a look at what happened last night; the whole thing was a damn PR stunt! He tells the public on short notice that he is having a charity event, and says that he would talk about 'several controversies' at the thing; when he ended up only talking about one! He barely touched on the fact his father was a terrorist—showing that he lied to the public for months. Then, he made it up to the people of New York by negotiating some sorta' bureaucratic deal to privatize the cops! The guy threw the press off so much with that punch that he got away with only talking about that—and not one bit about the claim that he gave mounds of tritium to a deranged crook!"

Jonah raised his eyebrow, intrigued.

"If you ask me, I think that he's far from squeaky clean. Maybe he wanted to cover up his tracks in the Fusion Reactor Scandal, and his father's past—or maybe something more..." he says, "But that also doesn't change the fact that Spider-Man mighta' killed three people outside of the bounds of the law...and maybe more. Who knows what else he's done in the dark behind our backs? A man of those talents has to go through his forty days of temptation eventually..."

J.J. sat there as the smoke poured from his mouth. Eddie then looked at Robbie, and back at Jonah.

J.J. then busted out laughing, and said "That's genius!" laughing more, "I could see the headlines now: ' _From Masked Hero to Masked Murderer_!' and _'Son of the Goblin Sells Out to Cover his Own Sins_!'"

He then continued: "If I had at least one of those headlines, I would—I would—" he paused and looked at Robbie, asking, "What's the best thing I can give somebody in this office?"

"Genuine appreciation?" Robbie said.

Jonah laughed again. "Now you're asking too much. How about uh—ah! What about what's his name's job? He's retiring this week."

"Bobbie's staff job? You told me you're firing him." Robbie replied.

"What—that's the same thing, isn't it?" J.J replied. "Brock, if you ever got me that headline—that staff job would be yours to keep until the day I die!"

"Woah, woah, woah, Mister Jameson—if there's anybody that deserves that staff job, it's me!" Peter interjected.

There was a slight pause after that. "Peter's right, Jonah; he's been working here for years." Robbie added.

"Alright, alright, alright...how about this? The first one of you to get me one of those headlines gets the staff job. Full time, sick leave, insurance, all of that beautiful stuff that I hate to give out." he said. "Deal?"

Eddie and Peter both locked eye contact and nodded in agreement.

"Good. Brock, go to Miss Brant and she'll write you the check. And Parker, quit taking stupid pictures of domestic animals. Now both of you, get out of my office!" he barked. They both compiled, and left in silence.

"I could almost feel their heads butting together the whole time." Jameson muttered to Robbie.

* * *

Minutes later after Brock got his check, Robbie came out his Jonah's office. "Peter," he called, "Come here."

Peter followed Robbie to his personal cubicle. "Take a seat." Robbie told him.

"Look, I'm gonna be honest with you. It's no secret that Jonah is drooling over Brock's work, so he's always gonna' be biased against you from now on." he continued, "But I know you, Peter. You're a hard worker, and I think you deserve that job."

"Thanks." Peter said.

"But praise aside, you've got yourself some serious competition. Brock's journalistic reasoning in that room was incredible, and he is gonna put up a fight for that slot. Though, I think you're smarter than him; your narrative about Spider-Man is on the right track. I'm smelling something fishy about Osborn's so-called evidence." he told Peter, "The point that I'm trying to get to is that I want to help you, Peter. I can be a hand in defending Spider-Man's innocence."

"Your help would mean a lot to me." Peter affirmed Robbie. "How do you plan on doing that, though?"

"Let me give you a little bit of context: Osborn's main claim that Spider-Man murdered his father is completely against the evidence that we have. The night of Norman's death, Spider-Man was reported by dozens of witnesses to had been seen fighting the Goblin near the Brooklyn Bridge. He saved several children from being thrown off the ledge by Norman, along with an unidentified woman that the Goblin reportedly kidnapped. If Spider-Man killed Norman after they got out of public sight, the evidence suggests that unless Osborn surrendered, Spider-Man took his life within the bounds of the law. The burden of proof is on Harry Osborn to show that Norman surrendered and submitted before he can reasonably accuse Spider-Man of capital murder."

Robbie concluded, "My point is that even with just Norman's death, Spider-Man is completely innocent of any charges. He just needs to express that case to the public..."

"And that was the part you were getting to." Peter said.

"Exactly. I need you to do me a favor, Peter. If you could get me just a few minutes alone with Spider-Man on record, I can prove his innocence so you can focus on the Osborn case. I'll give you the check in advance, so you can cover your rent."

Peter paused for a moment and contemplated that thought. "I can arrange that." he said.

"How soon?" Robbie asked.

"I'll...have to get back to you on that." Peter said.

"I'm sure it won't take long; you both seem pretty close in contact." Robbie remarked, locking eye contact with Peter.

Peter, in slight discomfort, nodded his head.

"Here," Robbie said, grabbing a pen: "How much is your rent?"

"Four hundred. Though, I'm fifty more behind." Peter replied.

"The best I can do is match up half of that. The wife would kill me if I did any more."

Peter thought for a moment, considering the implications with his landlord. "I'll take what I can get."

"Good. Get him to call me at this number by sundown." he said, handing Parker his business card and check.

"Will do. Thanks a lot, Robbie. I really do appreciate it." Peter replied, standing up from his seat.

Robbie added: "No problem. Be careful out there, Peter; I've got a feeling that things are starting to get ugly."

* * *

 ** _Later that day..._**

As dozens of phones buzzed off in the crowded office, Gwen sent Eddie a message through her cell phone, eager to hear how well the deadline went. She had genuine excitement for Eddie's career advancement, and tried to show as much support as she could to him—without getting in the way of it.

She looked up from her phone as she waited for her response, but she didn't have much to look at, other than the madhouse that was the Manhattan Police Precinct. Officers attempting to hold suspects still through processing, secretaries rushing with cups of coffee and mounds of paper in their hands...It seemed like a normal day in the building, but in truth, it was far from it.

Gwen was also waiting on her father, who was currently conducting business in the precinct's interrogation room. In the meantime, she looked back down at her phone, and looked at Eddie's reply.

" _I'v got even better news than I thought. I'll be home soon. Come by for dinner tonight._ " the text message read.

She smiled, and replied, " _Great! At the station right now, plus I have homework. I'll be there around 6pm tonight._ " via message.

Some time went by, but finally, her father came out of that sound-proof room. He laid eyes on Gwen, and raised his eyebrows. "Sweetie! How's a-going?" he said, walking up to her for a hug.

"Pretty good. I've got some good news!" she said to him, hugging in greeting.

"And what's that?"

"I aced my final yesterday in my biochem class! I made it onto the AP list with my professor...so I might be in line for an internship after next semester!""

"That's great! Gwen—" he said with a smirk, "Do you know how proud I am of you?"

"Proud enough to put in a good word with my professor?"

"You bet. I'll get on it once I get my bars on this week." he told her.

"Thanks daddy!" she said, kissing him on the cheek. "So...what's going on? It's a circus in here."

"Too much for me to explain in one time. Long story short, this is gonna be a long week..." he said.

Following that statement, the front doors of the precinct station opened with the sound of several cameras shuttering, and journalists speaking over one another. They were following a particular man in a three-piece black suit, with a white shirt and a power-inducing crimson tie and matching handkerchief. He was a white man; though, he was not a typical caucasian. The man was almost as white as death, fitting into more of the albino category. His short hair lacked any form of pigment, and he was advanced in his years. Perhaps mid fifties. In addition, he was clean shaven fresh from a straight razor. He smiled as he laid eyes on Gwen's father.

"Captain George Stacy!" he exclaimed from across the room with his distinct Italian-New Yorker accent. Two men in black and gray uniforms stood beside him.

George turned to Gwen. he said lowly, "I've gotta take this, then we'll go to lunch."

"Okay, I'll be here." Gwen assured him. George nodded.

He walked up to the man, who already had his hand out for a proper introduction. George shook his hand. "Inspector Lonnie Lincoln, I presume?"

"Guilty as charged. It's a pleasure to meet you, captain." he said, turning toward the cameras for a PR shot. George felt uncomfortable from the unnecessary publicity.

"With all due respect, inspector, I need to let you know that I'm still a sergeant until the end of the week." George Stacy replied.

Lonnie chuckled. "That's where you're wrong, Georgie! You're now Captain Stacy of the New York City Police Department, under my order." he said, following with a pause of speech for the cameras. "Congratulations, I just have you a payraise a week earlier than expected!"

"Oh—uh, thank you sir, but—" George attempted while trying to avoid eye contact with the cameras. Though, he was cut off by Lonnie.

"I know, I know—you've gotta finish up the Schultz case. Well let me tell you my friend, you ain't gotta worry about that any longer. He's actually coming up behind us right now." he said, pointing towards the door.

Several men in those same Oscorp uniforms held the suspect in restraint, coming through the front door of the building. "Could you believe this guy was trying to electrocute our boys? A real shocker, that guy is."

George was speechless. He had been trying to track down that suspect for weeks. "How did you even…?"

"Superior intel is a big part of our business, captain. Just goes to show what the perks of the private industry can do for a police department, eh?" he said with a smile on his face, patting George on the shoulder. George gave a fake smirk. "Anyways though, how about you show me to my new office? I think our friends in the press here have seen enough."

"Uh, sure. Right this way, inspector." he replied.

"Great!" the man said, walking towards the glassed-in office. He ignored the repeated questions from the journalists behind him, as several Oscorp officers escorted them away from the inspector. Gwen looked at her father, practically feeling his uneasiness about the situation.

The door shut behind them, leaving the Oscorp officers outside. "So, this is it?" he asked.

"Yes sir."

"I can work with it. I need an ashtray over there, though. That's a given." Lonnie said taking two cigars out of his suitcase. "Do you smoke?"

"Not anymore. I quit ten years ago." George replied.

"Ah, I see. You have a family or something?"

"Yeah, I've got a daughter." he replied.

"No wife?" he followed up.

"She died of lung cancer." George stated, allowing a pause to sink in.

"Oh, I see." he said, "I'm sorry to hear that. Was she a pack-a-day type of gal?"

"No, but I was. She never smoked a day in her life."

"Damn. Second-hand smoke is a bitch." Lonnie said to him, putting away one cigar he was going to offer George.

"Yeah." George said with a course tone.

"Anyways, getting off that note; the place is pretty nice. You've done a good job keeping it together with the old captain." Lonnie complimented.

"Thanks. I'd get him to meet you, if he was here today. I guess he's out sick." George replied.

"Oh, he ain't out sick, Georgie. I gave him an early retirement last night." Lonnie said while chewing his cigar. He then lit it up while having a smirk on his face.

George Stacy chuckled. "I'm sure he appreciated it."

"I at least know that his wife did. She was screamin' and shoutin' in joy in the background." Lonnie replied. "Besides, I was too eager to not see you in charge on my first day. I like to make big changes where I step foot."

George gave another fake smirk.

"Georgie, I can promise you that's a _good_ thing. Trust me on that, alright? Great things are about to happen!" he declared sitting down in his chair with his feet propped up. "We'll discuss the game-plan later. I'm sure you wanna grab a bite to eat before we do that."

"Yeah, I'll go ahead and take my lunch." George said. "I'll be back in an hour."

"Sounds good to me, captain!" Lonnie exclaimed. "Oh, and you may wanna leave out of a different exit. The press out there is gonna try to eat you alive."

"Note taken." George said, closing the door.

He walked out and back toward Gwen, who was still on her phone. She looked up to him.

"You ready for lunch?" George said.

Gwen stood up from her chair and replied, "Yeah, sounds good to me."

"Alright. Where to?" he followed up.

"The campus. I need to go to the library afterwards, so we might as well just go somewhere that's close."

"Sounds good to me. Let's just...go out the back door. I wanna avoid the press." he said.

"Okay. Is...everything alright?"

"To be honest, I...don't know yet."

"Is it about that guy you just met?" Gwen questioned.

George nodded.

"Who was he, anyways?" she asked.

"...Trouble." he muttered.

* * *

 ** _A few minutes later..._**

"I'll have the salad combo with a cappuccino." Gwen said to the cashier.

"Okay, and for you, sir?" the man asked.

"I'll eh...just get a burger and a cup of joe. Keep it separate from her; I'll pay for mine." George said.

"No problem. Is this under a meal plan?" the cashier replied.

"Yeah. Here's my card." she said.

"Okay, and the total for you, sir, is $5.73. I gave you a law enforcement discount."

George put $6 on the table. "Thanks. Give the change to someone else." he followed up.

"I'll be sure to do that. If you both want to take a seat, I'll get someone to serve you your food."

"Okay, thanks." Gwen said.

"There aren't any tables open." George said, looking around the packed restaurant.

"Hold on." Gwen said, walking around a small corner. She then walked through the ailes with her father. "There's one." she continued, pointing towards a table with a familiar figure filling one of the four seats.

They both walked up to the table. "Mind if we sit here?" Gwen asked.

"Sure, no problem." he replied after taking a sip of coffee while mostly paying attention to his copy of The Bugle's brand new paper.

They both sat down, looking at Peter. Though, George had to take a closer look at him one he realized some sort of familiarity.

"Peter Parker?" George asked.

"That's me." he answered while reading a column on the paper. He then looked up slightly after recognizing the voice. "Sergeant Stacy?" he said. "Pardon my manners, I was getting lost in this column."

George replied, "It's _Captain_ Stacy now, actually. And no worries, Parker. It's your job to keep up to date with the news." he said with a smirk on his face. They both then shook hands.

"That's great news! Congratulations on that!" Peter said.

"Thanks a lot, kid." George looked at Gwen as she waited to be introduced. "Gwen, this is Peter Parker. He's a photojournalist; I usually catch him taking photos of crime scenes after I show up with my boys. Parker, this is my one and only daughter."

"Ah okay, that's cool!" she said while shaking his hand, "Where at?"

" _The Daily Bugle_. I've been there for a couple years now. Nice to meet you, by the way." he told her.

Gwen raised her eyebrows. "Oh, n—nice!" she replied, realizing that his name sounded familiar. She looked at his newspaper, "Did you get some good photos in there?"

Peter chuckled, "Uh...not this time. I had the carpet swept under me by this new guy. He talked up the boss into giving him the whole newspaper."

"Oh...I'm sorry to hear that." she said in a slightly awkward tone.

"I'm sure you're gonna have a chance to get back at him. From what I hear, you're practically Spider-Man's personal photographer. He's in the heat right now, so you've got an edge on that new blood." George added.

"Yeah, I hope so. I need to pay my rent somehow." Peter chuckled. "I'm actually trying to get a staff job there, but since the new guy impressed my boss so much, I'm competing for the position with him. Whoever gets dirt on either Spider-Man or Osborn gets the spot."

Gwen looked down at the table, realizing that Eddie was a part of this.

"Now isn't that some B.S.?" George said, "You work there with blood, sweat, and tears for two years, and then some new guy comes along qualified the same as you because he sweet-talked your boss. Some world we live in."

"Yeah...I think I've got a few tricks up my sleeve to beat him. We'll have to see." Peter said.

"I'm sure you'll find something. You seem like a smart kid." George replied. "What are you majoring in, anyways?"

"I'm going for my master's in Physics." he answered.

George looked at Gwen, and raised an eyebrow. "See, I told you he's a smart guy." Gwen let out a small grin.

Injecting into the moment, a restaurant associate served the two their meals. Peter finished his coffee in the meantime. "I'll take some more of the complimentary coffee, if you don't mind." Peter said to the employee.

"Will do." the associate replied.

"So, Captain Stacy—" Peter said, "What's this week looking like for the precinct?"

"A rude awakening." George told him. "I got a new boss today. He's...interesting...to say the least."

"How so?" Peter asked.

"By order of Governor Thompson, my department is set to be run by a privatized cop."

"And you don't like it." Peter finished George's statement for him.

"Not one bit." George assured him. "If you want my opinion, I think that Thompson is getting kickbacks for letting Osborn donate that money to the city. He's probably taking a good chunk of it for his own."

"Hmph." Peter followed up, taking a drink. "How do you...eh—how do you think that benefits Osborn?"

"Beats me. I mean, I guess you could say he wants some power in the city, but there's no way that's it."

"Maybe he's getting kickbacks also." Gwen interjected.

"How do you mean?" Peter asked.

Gwen halted in shock, and evaded the response. She just realized that she was feeding ideas to Eddie's rival. "I don't know, actually. Just a thought, I guess."

"No, no, I think you're onto something." Peter replied. "I just wonder what..."

George chuckled. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"I'm more concerned about defending Spider-Man right now. Though, I'll get to Osborn soon." Peter told him.

"I figured you'd think he's innocent." said George.

"Do you think he is?" Peter curiously inquired.

George paused momentarily. "I want to think so. I guess I can't make any conclusions until all of the details come out."

"...You just might see something come out tonight, captain." Peter alluded.

"Is that so?" George chuckled, "I look forward to hearing about it, then."

Peter nodded with a smirk. "I have to get going, but we'll have to catch up sometime soon. Maybe I'll see you around town this week!" Peter told him, shaking his hand. "And it was a pleasure meeting you, Gwen Stacy."

"Likewise to you, Peter Parker." she said with an admittedly lustful smirk.

Peter took his styrofoam cup and tossed it in the trash after taking a final gulp. He then walked out of the restaurant hall, and into the student admissions office. Peter passed by a few students, and found himself out the front exit, then down the main flight of exterior stairs. Peter pulled out Robbie's business card, and began dialing on his relatively new burner-phone. Three-eight four, two-six-eight-nine was the combination. The receiver idly buzzed, and buzzed. Ten seconds passed before somebody answered.

"Robbie Robertson, Daily Bugle. How can I help ya'?" he answered.

"—5th Avenue and Decker, back alley adjacent to Central Bank. Eight PM—don't be late." Peter bluntly told Robbie, using an electronically distorted voice to keep his identity hidden.

Robbie sat silent for a second, writing the address on a sheet of paper. "Got it. See you th—" Robbie attempted to say before Peter closed his phone.

He sat still for a second, then stood up from his seat. He ambled over to Betty's desk and exclaimed, "Miss Brant," he then stepped up closer and lowered his voice. "When Jonah gets back, tell him I'm leaving early tonight. I've got...business to attend to."


End file.
